salty trumps bitter
by khaleesifromdc
Summary: post-series, pre-i want to believe. angst drafts.


the first year wasn't all that eventful.

there was no hurry to get anywhere in particular, not like they used to in earlier years, happier times. still, they didn't spent more than a day or two in the same place. the hurry was to get away, as fast as possible, with no certain destiny on their minds.

fake names, few meals, fewer talks. days spent travelling, nights spent in the darkness of cheap motel rooms, in a haunting silence broken only by the sound of soft kisses placed in her scapula.

he's always making sure to hold her close, trying to make up for all the times he wasn't able to do so. to make up for all the things she had gone trought since they've met. scully knew him too well to understand his embrace; she felt the bitter taste of guilt in his lips every time it touched hers.

he, on the other hand, felt sorrow in hers. salty, mostly due to drought tears and pale memories.

it wasn't such an eventful year, after all. to the ones who sought the truth for so long, having to live in the middle of lies felt almost like a cosmical irony, a bad joke spat by the universe. but his survival depended on it.

and, by extension, hers too.

* * *

the ghost of a lost child's still very vivid between the two, haunting them constantly. every little memory runs through her head like a lightening, as sharp as the point of a knife to her heart. her lips tremble when she listens to a specific song on the radio, and she quickly changes the station with shaking hands. she stares a lot, her mind floating around to her baby.

mulder notices her expression when they spot a child running around, or pass through a playground. he sees her hands unconsciously closing in fists, trying to put off the need of holding her child; feels the hurt in her eyes, in the form of a dark shade.

he hates himself more in these days.

he hates what he's done to her. they don't talk about it, but he feels in his soul his share of responsability for everything that happened to her. he feels it when she tries to call bill, to explain... to try to explain what she's been doing. what she's done. he feels it when bill hungs up the phone in her face, tired of her bullshit. his bullshit.

even in bed, when he's exploring her body, he gets a reminder of all the tragedies she's been through; the little scar under her neck from the implant they've put on her; the bullets she's taken once on her ribs; the tattoo on her lower back, divided by the mark of knife cuts. all of this was partially him, and every light touch of his on these spots makes him hate himself.

he hates how they had to give up on the very notion of a mundane life for an impertnent truth. how they've been left with anything else other than that. most of all, he hates how some of her light had been stinguished, taken away from her together with her son.

_their_ son.

he had a son, even though he didn't get to be a father. his wild fantasy of throwing balls and watching games together has to be pushed away to a deep corner of his mind. he can't open that box. it's too much.

they must've invetigated tons of ghost cases, but none felt truer than william's.

* * *

they get a house, finally. a rustic living room, a big kitchen, an office and two bedrooms.

they don't redecorate.

it's a nice, hidden place close enough to a hospital, but still isolated from the world. scully soon gets a job there, more for her sanity than for the money.

in the hospital, she's dr. scully. there's no rumours or laughs when she walks in, there's no nicknames behind her back. there's no little green men waiting to be found. there's only science, and scientific proof. rational thinking. no clouded judgment. just reason.

she manages to keep a low profile there, not talking much about her private life. she creates two new personas, doing her best to separate them; dr. scully is tough. an insurmountable wall. dana is more reclused, soft. quiet, delicated even. agent scully, the third persona, was left behind a long time ago.

the staff is good enough, but no friends are made. they try, though. she's asked if she's married, and just spells "it's complicated". no more questions about her love life are made. she's asked if she has kids.

she doesn't answer this one.

* * *

his charming paranormal ideas weren't all that captivating after a while. their arguments weren't that arousing or appealing, either; the constant need to disagree about everything wasn't stimulating anymore.

she is tired of this life, tired of running away, tired of sleepless nights thinking about little boys and apocalipses. tired of waking up in the middle of the night to find the other side of the bed empty. tired of not knowing if he was ever going to come back.

the arguments soon starts to evolve to small fights about trivial things. be the roof of his office, all covered with pencils, to the way he left the last time, without warning, without notes, without a kiss goodbye.

they find themselves screaming at each other more often than they could've imagine.

his self hatred gets to a point where she can't bare it anymore. she tells him she's done pitying his autodeprecation, and asks him if he could at least do the same for her. it's not the greatest choice of words.

"is that why we're here? out of pity?"

she looks at him, not being able to reply. she's been asking herself what were they doing for a long time. having anything else to say, he storms out. another sleepless night ahead of her.

* * *

he comes back a week later. she closes the book she've been reading, sitting straight.

"i thought you walked away."

"would you like me to?"

they stare at each other for what appears to be forever. in the soft light of the living room, she recognizes the demon she's been fighting against: the guilt on his face. she supposes her face, too, is covered in sorrow; grief that never really went away.

"we're not here out of pity", she finally says. "at least, i'm not."

"i can't... forget what's been done to us. nor forgive. i can't keep myself from tracing it all back to me." it's difficult for him to spit this out, and she knows it. all these years, they haven't talked about it.

"mulder, we both made choices. everything we went through, every path we took... were because of them. we're standing here, now, and there's another one to make."

he looks at her, desperate, as if what she was asking him was as absurd as asking him if he believed in UFOs.

"i'm not walking away, scully. never did, never will. it's up to you."

she sighs. "i haven't changed my mind. not even for a minute."

he smiles, relieved. the first true smile she's seen in a long time. she gets up, walking in his direction. she slowly starts to draw patterns into his face, holding it with both hands,

"what happened to us... is unforgivable. unforgettable. but we can-, no, we need- to put it past us. so we can hope for the best. they took away everything from us... the final nail in the coffin would be taking away each other." she smiles. "i won't accept that."

he blinks, lips half opened. he's not sure how to respond to that right away; he just embraces her, fully.

"do you really believe we can do this?"

"i want to."


End file.
